


A Constant Regard

by zeldadestry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-12
Updated: 2004-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:39:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Affection and the eye of the beholder</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Constant Regard

Tonks didn't exactly know what she was supposed to look like. There wasn't a lot known about Metamorphmagi; there were so few of them. Whether or not they actually had a face of their own was a subject still open to debate. Over time, she'd settled on a face that was mostly her Dad, with her Mom around the edges. This was the face she usually wore, with modifications here and there, especially to her hair. She had too many things going on in her life to worry much about it, but sometimes in her dreams she would see a young woman who looked familiar but was no one she had ever met. She would wake up, trying to remember what this figment had looked like, trying to replicate this woman's face in her own, but she was never able. She wondered if this apparition represented her true face.

It was a Wednesday night, and a meeting of the Order had just ended. Some people were getting their cloaks on and leaving, while others milled around catching up with each other. Mad-Eye stomped over to her, his normal eye fixed on her new hair. She'd woken up that morning feeling distinctly ready for a change, and consequently was sporting a spiky, bright blue mohawk. She thought it was fabulous, as it managed to be both fetching and funky. Electric blue was definitely her color. She doubted Mad-Eye would be as impressed. Sure enough, the first thing he growled at her was, "You look ridiculous."

"Thanks!" she said brightly, slapping him on the back. "So do you. Come to think of it, my hair color matches your eye."

He grinned wryly at her for just a moment, and was about to say something when Arthur Weasley called him over. "I'll be back," he said, and she was glad he'd turned away and wouldn't see her blush. Blushing was one aspect of her appearance she'd never learned to control. After concluding his business with Arthur, Moody headed back to her and said, gruffly, "So, where you off to?"

"I think I'm going to stay here for a bit, keep Sirius company."

Moody's eye spun towards the corner where Sirius was sitting by the fire, nursing a drink. "I'm not sure he wants company."

"He may not want it," she countered, "but he needs it." She gave him a little punch in the arm. "Come on. Up for a bit of puppy-sitting?"

"I'm up for a drink, anyway," he replied, and they walked across the room, side by side, to join Sirius.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone else had scattered, and the three of them sat at the kitchen table in front of the fire. Moody downed whatever it was he kept in his flask at a fast clip, and considering that he was, by nature, as surly as Sirius was tonight, Tonks felt it fell on her to bring the cheer. Unfortunately, though her butterbeer had warmed her tummy, Number 12, Grimmauld Place, was an undeniable buzz kill and soon they were all drinking silently. Moody and Sirius seemed content to stay as they were, staring into space, side by side, draining and refilling their glasses; Tonks found it unbearable. She cleared her throat several times, but when neither of them paid any notice, she finally said, rather sternly, "Sirius, what's bothering you?"

He turned slowly to look at her, dazed, as though she had awakened him. "Sorry," he said, "What?"

"What are you brooding about?"

He tilted his head to the left, and the vertebrae in his neck crackled. The sound was ominous in the gloom, like a bone breaking. "Remus told me he'd be back by Monday."

"But Dumbledore said he didn't know when Remus would finish his assignment," Tonks reminded him.

"Remus told me he'd be back by Monday," Sirius repeated, crossly, turning away from her and back to the fire, as though he expected to see Lupin's head appearing in it at any moment.

"But Dumbledore said," she began, but stopped, shocked, when Sirius leaned forward and pounded his fist against the table.

"I don't care," he said, his voice strangely quiet and vicious, so that he sounded more like Snape than himself, "what Dumbledore said." He slouched back in his chair, and turned it away from her.

Moody gave her a sympathetic look, but when she opened her mouth to try again with Sirius, he shook his head at her.

She slumped back in her chair and stuck her tongue out at him. Mad-Eye always thought he knew best.

They sat on for another long moment, and Tonks's bum had just fallen asleep when they heard the front door unlocking. Sirius, who had been collapsed bonelessly in his chair, suddenly straightened up, his eyes wide. His head swiveled in the direction of the noise. He looked so exactly like he did as a dog, that Tonks, who had just taken another sip of butterbeer laughed and snorted a bit of her drink out her nose. Moody, of course, had already drawn his wand, and was on his feet, ready to duel, his eye circling wildly.

"Who is it?" Sirius asked, and his voice was hoarse.

Moody sat back down, and said, "You can relax. Lupin's arrived."

Sirius, however, remained on the edge of his seat, and tremored with anticipation, like a dog hearing his master's footsteps approach.

They heard the front door swinging shut and locking itself back up, and then Remus called out, "Hello? Sirius?" His voice sounded strained.

"We're in here," hollered Tonks.

A moment later, the door swung open, and Remus stood in the door frame, his shoulders slumped and his hair in his face. He looked like he had not had a single good night's sleep in the week and a half he had been away. As though he could sense Sirius's presence, from the moment the door had opened, his eyes latched on him. He gave Sirius a weary, warm smile, that deepened the premature wrinkles etched around his eyes.

"You're late," Sirius said. His voice was petulant, but it was obvious he could barely restrain himself from leaping upon Lupin and licking his face.

"There was an unavoidable delay," Remus replied, in his usual calm tone. Turning his attention away from Sirius for the first time since he'd entered the room, he nodded at Tonks and Moody, saying "Evening, Nymphadora, Alastor."

"It's Tonks!" Tonks said, pleasantly exasperated.

At the exact same moment, Mad-Eye gritted out, "It's Moody to you, Lupin." But Tonks could tell he was as fond of Remus as she was. "Have a drink," he said, pouring a new glass of firewhiskey for Lupin.

"Thanks," he said, sitting down next to Sirius, whose eyes followed him as he moved. Sirius turned in his chair so that he faced Remus, and stared unblinkingly at his profile. After a moment, he slung an arm around him, and dropped his head to rest the side of his face on Remus's shoulder. Remus ignored him, but Tonks noticed a slight blush on his cheeks. It was pretty to see; he usually looked so tired and bloodless.

She felt sorry for Sirius when she saw the fear that remained faintly in his eyes. She had not thought of it before, of him alone in the house, worried about Remus, worried that he might be hurt, or worse. She now understood the hidden meaning behind 'You're late'. If something had happened to Remus, Sirius would have been helpless to do anything about it. He was prisoner here, unable to defend what he cared for.

Remus was telling Moody how things had gone in Spain, and during a pause in the conversation, Tonks noticed Sirius pull on Remus's sleeve until Remus turned and covered Sirius's hand with his own. The touch visibly reassured Sirius. She knew she should listen to Remus's report, but her mind was wandering. She had seen how Remus and Sirius looked at each other; she had seen a strange reversal. Sirius, who was so inflammable, seemed calmer when he looked at Remus. Some change came over his features that made him look, if not at peace, at least as though he were capable of it. Remus, on the other hand, always so restrained, only ever revealed his feral aspect when he was watching Sirius. There was alchemy at work; they transformed each other. Did they wield this same power over each other, all those years they had been apart? Had Sirius, while prisoner in Azkaban, suddenly stilled when he thought of Remus? Did a shard of remembered comfort appear in his expression, just for a moment? When Remus had thought of Sirius, whom he believed to be a murderer and traitor, had some dangerous need still flared in his otherwise impassive gaze?

She brought her attention back to the discussion when she heard Remus conclude by saying, "It was a failure, by any measure."

Moody shook his head. "You never know. You did your job, and the situation may change." He yawned, then, and shook out his gray mane, standing to take his leave. Tonks stood also. "Well, Remus," Mad-Eye said, hooking a thumb in Sirius's direction. "We leave him in your capable hands."

"Indeed," leered Sirius.

"Thanks for looking after him," Remus said, smiling.

Sirius sat up, looking offended and said "For God's sake, Moony, they weren't 'looking after' me. They were enjoying a drink and my unparalleled wit and charm."

"Right," Remus said, "unparalleled in this house, at least, where your only competition is Kreacher." As he spoke, Sirius was leaning in towards him, and Tonks was sure they were just about to kiss. Unfortunately, she missed all the fun, because Mad-Eye had found his walking staff, and was tapping it against her leg as he herded her through the door and out into the hall.

"Hey," she said, indignantly. "I was watching that."

"They don't want an audience," Mad-Eye said.

"How would you know?" she sassed, and both his eyes rolled at her, rotating in different directions. "How do you do that?"

When they were back out in the street, Tonks took a big inhale of city air, which seemed wonderfully fresh, at least compared to the honorable house of Black. She let her breath out with a bit of a primal scream. "I hate that place," she said, shuddering. "Gives me the shivers."

"That why you wanted to stay with Sirius for a bit? You worried about him?"

"Yes," she admitted, taking his arm.

"Good of you," he replied.

"Listen," she said, as they walked up the block, slightly nervous, because of her mixed intentions. "I've got some things I've been wanting to ask you about your experience as an Auror. My flat's not far. Come up and have some tea."

"It's late, Tonks," he said, but he sounded persuadable.

"Come on. I've got this chocolate torte I picked up at the bakery yesterday. It's so delicious, it's got raspberry jam in between the layers." He was glaring at her. "What?"

"That torte could be dangerous."

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes. "Yes, because I'm so oblivious, I never noticed my friendly neighborhood bakery is actually run by Death Eaters undercover as pastry chefs!" He removed her arm from his in a huff, and she had to repent for making fun. "OK, OK. I'm sorry Mad-Eye. Will you at least drink my tea?"

"As long as I can watch you make it, so I know for sure you haven't tried to poison me," he replied, crankily, but she was pretty sure he was teasing.

"Call me crazy, Mad-Eye, but you're a wee bit paranoid," she said, taking his arm again, and leading him towards her home. Everyone they passed stared at them, and sometimes she couldn't resist giving people who were particularly egregious gawkers a big wink or blowing them a kiss.

"You attract too much attention," Moody grumbled, and she snickered.

"I'm not sure it's the mohawk they're shocked by. You look like no one else on earth," she said, leaning over and lifting up his bowler hat for a moment so that she could sneak a peek at the magical eye.

"Quit that," he said, slapping her hand away.

"You're one-of-a-kind," she said. "You know that?"

"Likewise you," he replied, but not as though he thought it was a good thing.

  


When they finally sat down at her kitchen table, each with a cup of tea in front of them, he turned an expectant gaze on her. "Well?"

Leave it to him to refuse to small talk. "Mad-Eye," she began, uncertainly.

"Call me Alastor."

"Alastor," she said, grinning, until she remembered what she wanted to ask, and a gloom descended over her features. "There's something I've been wondering. It's personal, for you, I mean, but I'm only asking you to explain to me because I think it could help me, be useful to me, as an Auror, and a member of the Order." God, was she rambling? Why was she rambling?

"What?" he said, warily. "Spit it out, already."

She steadied herself. "I know that during the first war, you resisted the Imperius Curse more than once." She looked at him for confirmation, and he grunted in ascent, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive movement. "So," she continued, wishing she didn't have to, "Why was Barty Crouch Jr able to subdue you?"

He frowned. "I'd like to see you resist it, when you're stunned regularly, unconscious ninety-nine percent of the time, and starved."

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean," she flushed. "It's horrible what he did to you, horrible, and I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

He waved his hand in the air, as if to swat away her sympathy. "Enough with the sob story. I don't need it."

"I understand how he kept you subdued. What I want to know is how he got you in the first place. How did he catch you off-guard?"

He was silent for a long moment, during which she became excruciatingly aware of the loud ticking of the clock on her kitchen wall. "All right," he finally said, darkly, when she had begun to think they would sit on till morning. "I was the one who brought in Bellatrix LeStrange and Crouch. He was a Death Eater, and loyal to You-Know-Who, there's no question of that. But there was never any proof that he tortured the Longbottoms. In fact, your Aunt swore that he had not been with them during that particular," his mouth twisted into a sneer, "festivity." He paused, and then said, abruptly, "Ever been to Azkaban, Tonks?"

"No."

"Even been near a dementor?"

"Yeah, during training."

"Right," he said, dismissively, "but those are controlled exercises. Have you ever been with one for any extended period of time, outside of training?"

"No."

"You know why for most a sentence to Azkaban is as bad as death?"

"I can guess," she said, and he motioned that she should. "It's because it drives people out of their minds."

"That's right. Don't get me wrong. I was never in the habit of feeling pity for anyone I put away. They deserved what they got. But he was such a pathetic little runt, so young, so scared. What your Aunt said, it put a doubt in my mind. Maybe that's why she said it. For whatever reason, when I heard he had died in there, something about it sickened me. When I saw him that night, thinking he'd been dead all those years, I didn't know what I was seeing. I froze for a moment, shocked, and a moment was all he needed." He came back to himself, from out of his memories and narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "A moment is all they ever need. One moment of weakness, of doubt, and they strike. Don't forget that." He paused, and sipped at his tea, and she wondered if it were her imagination that made it seem his hand slightly trembled. Suddenly, he burst out laughing, and it was a nasty, hateful sound. "Believe me, I know now what an idiot I was for thinking there could be anything pitiable in that maniac."

"I'm sorry," she said, again. He acknowledged her sympathy with a nod of his head. When he had finished his tea, he thanked her, rather formally, and then he was walking away, towards the front door.

"Wait," she said, because she hated to see him go away from her upset and unhappy. He turned, but as she hurried towards him, she tripped over her combat boots, and fell upon him, knocking him against the wall. Her body was pressed against his, and she stood, frozen. His arms had gone around her, in an attempt to steady her, and they were strong circling her waist. She stared at him, and he stared back, and she slowly reached up her thumb and ran it along his jaw. His stubble scratched against her finger. Up close, the magical eye was even more strikingly blue. It seemed to hypnotize her. She wanted to look at nothing else. His hold on her tightened, and she stood up on her toes so that her face was closer to his. Her fingertips were moving across his cheek, now, and she had never felt anything like his skin. Each scar was unique, with a different depth, a different texture. Some of the edges were rough, some smooth, some scars stood out as singular, and some flowed into each other seamlessly. As she caressed his face, his eyelids lowered and he sighed deeply. At the feel of his moist breath against her skin, her gaze moved downward to the red slash that was his mouth.

"Such a klutz," he said, warmly, right before her mouth pressed against his for a moment. He smiled at the brief touch, and his hand trailed slowly along her side, making her shiver as he passed her breast. He stopped when he had wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, his thumb brushing over her nape. She kissed him again, her hands cradling his face. His mouth was hot, and his tongue was impossibly soft as it stroked against her own. She caught his lower lip gently between her teeth, and when she ran her tongue over it, it felt strangely voluptuous, compared to the sinuous whole of him. Kissing him was like kissing Hercules, or an ancient gladiator. His scars were badges and medals that proved him a survivor. She clung to him as he must have clung to his own life, all those times he had been so close to fading into nothingness, but never had. She clung to him until she realized he had stopped kissing back, and his arms had let her go, and it was cold. She took an awkward step away from him, disappointed and embarrassed.

"You're too young," he said, but his tongue ran over his upper lip as though he were chasing a trace of her taste. She knew now that though his skin tasted salty, his spit was sweet.

"Don't you mean you're too old?" she countered, hurt.

"No," he said, firmly. "Has nothing to do with me and you. You're too young to remember what the first war was like; you don't understand how it will be."

She rested her hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture not of desire, but of solidarity and comradeship. She looked at him straight on. "Then tell me."

"We're the avant-garde. You know where that term comes from?"

"Art?"

"No, it's Muggle military. It's the division that's in front of all the others, the first ones into the line of fire. We're the avant-garde, all of us in the Order. We may not be the very first, but some of our number will be in the first wave of people to die." He knocked her hand off his shoulder. "Do you understand?"

"I understand, yeah. I know the dangers. But what's that got to do with us?" Her voice was plaintive.

"Stupid, stupid girl," he said, in the way only he could, with enough affection to make her want to throw her arms around him, kissing his cheeks and whispering taunts in his ear that would make him chuckle. But he must have seen the giddy impulse in her, because he leveled her with a stern, hard stare. "We're going to fight," he said, "you and me, side by side. And when things are bad, and they're guaranteed to be bad, the only person you can worry about is you. You hear me?" he said, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders.

"Yes," she said, weakly. His scarred face was so close to her own. There was sorrow in his eyes, and he was bringing home to her, in a way nothing had before, that this pain was inevitable and waiting for her.

"You can't worry about me. You can't even spare a thought for me, or glance at me, because they'll take any chance they get, even in a second. And you know what they'll do to you."

"I know," she said, solemnly.

"You think Marlene McKinnon regretted it? You think Frank Longbottom would have, if he even had a brain left to understand what the hell happened to him? Look at what they paid for their love. Look at it! We can't sink to their level," he said, and she knew by the way he spit 'their' that he meant the Death Eaters. The harshness of his tone revealed the hatred he held for them. "But if we're going to fight them, and win, we have to minimize our vulnerabilities. And this," he said, lifting up their intertwined hands, "is a vulnerability."

"It's not fair," she said, not caring how childish she sounded.

"I know," he said, squeezing her hand for a moment. "I know." His other gnarled hand reached into his pocket, and he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. "Blow your nose," he said.

She hadn't even realized she was crying. "Thank you." She understood now what had carried him through all the battles, scathed, but alive. He didn't cling to his own life. He clung to his duty. He set out to hunt down Dark Wizards, and he did everything he could to fulfill the mission. He had not survived because he had refused to lose his own life, but because he had refused to let them escape. He would have done anything to apprehend them, anything to keep others safe and protected. She understood, now, and it made her want him more, made her love him, even though she understood why he would never allow it.

They stood in silence as she wiped her tears and blew her nose. When she had collected herself again, he said, "I can see it, you know."

"What?" she asked. She did not understand what he was saying, but she was moved by the tenderness she heard in his voice.

"Your original face, beneath the one you wear."

"What?" she said, again, shocked.

"It's the eye," he replied, gesturing to the magic one.

"Yeah," she responded, vaguely, still stunned.

"I could describe it for you, if you'd like."

"Wait," she said, thinking furiously. "No," she decided. "No, I don't need to know. Just tell me, do you like it?"

"Well, yeah," he said as though this were self-evident. "You're beautiful in any way." His hand reached out to touch her face. She inclined towards him, but as she did, he withdrew and opened the front door, instead. "Good night, Tonks," he said, and she could hear in his voice that he was sorry. She understood that he, too, wished it could be otherwise.

"Good night, Mad-Eye," she tried to smile, but could not, and gnawed at her lip. He tipped his bowler hat at her, and took off down the hall, his traveling cape trailing behind him. His walking stick was under his arm, and his wooden leg stamped out a steady beat. She could hear it even after she closed the door.

She stood there, her forehead leaning against the door until the sound of his footstep disappeared. Then she went to the kitchen and threw the tea bags away, put the cream back in the fridge and the sugar back in the cupboard, and stood at the sink. She washed the cups and the kettle in the warm, soapy water. Her hands needed something to do. As she finished, she noticed her reflection captured in the window in front of her. She watched herself in this makeshift mirror, and the full weight of Mad-Eye's unexpected revelation pressed against her heart. No matter what form she took, what beautiful or horrific mantle she assumed, he offered a constant regard.


End file.
